


Down the Sluice

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Community: rounds_of_kink, F/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:51:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything happens because of her hand on his thigh. (Pre-season 1)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down the Sluice

**Author's Note:**

> Written for New Year’s Mini-Round 2009 at rounds_of_kink. Prompt: accidental stimulation, “sluice” and if possible some kind of New Year theme.

Everything happens because of her hand on his thigh.

It’s late, this part of the infirmary is quiet and deserted, the fluorescent lights cold and bright over their heads, and Lincoln focuses on Doc Tancredi’s hand. He’s engrossed enough by its small, meticulous gestures to give only a distracted thought to her overall look. For all the months she’s been here, it’s the first time he’s ever seen her like that – dress pants and high heels and make up and even a hint of perfume. Nothing blatant, nothing overdone; nothing she wears on a daily basis either. When she entered the room, he thought _Bet this isn’t the way you’d imagined to spend the night, doc_ but he shut up. Not out of consideration, just because he’s not the talkative kind, now less than ever.

But it’s the New Year eve, fifteen minutes to midnight, and she has blood on the white lab coat she’s shrugged on above her fancy clothes so yeah, he does think this isn’t the way she had imagined to spend the night. Her presence is courtesy of guys who thought it was the perfect night to mess with the guards. Lincoln’s not even sure how he got involved into the damn fuckery. This is usually just not the kind of things you can avoid getting involved in, you know? One thing lead to another, and it degenerated to the point of almost turning into a general lockdown. Enough serious injuries so that Pope eventually called the doc in.

Anyway, really, it’s not because of the high heels or the perfume or even the fact that when he angles his head a certain way, he can see curves and smooth skin in her cleavage he’s never had the chance to look at before. It’s her hand on his thigh. It’s so nimble, gentle and precise while she takes care of the nasty cut he got there. He can feel its softness and warmth even through the latex gloves as she cleans and disinfects and inspects to decide whether or not it needs to be stitched up. It’s unnerving; it’s getting to him; it’s making him react in a way he’d rather avoid reacting right now – hard and horny and desperate for a touch he can’t afford and won’t get. When she pushes up the hem of his grayish white boxers and brushes the bare skin of his upper thigh, he feels his guts tighten, embarrassment and arousal mixed. He can’t help grabbing her wrist to swat her away because honestly, it’s the lesser of the two evils. They’re alone in her office – they shouldn’t be, but it’s not like the badges don’t have enough in their hands outside – and for a split second, he can sense her panic, her pulse quickening, he can hear the gasp she tries to hold in. _Then_ she realizes, notices the swelling in his crotch, the flesh constricted in there and trying to poke out of the slit of the underwear, and she lifts her head to look him in the eye.

“Sorry,” he groans hoarsely. “You know how it is.”

He releases her wrist. All remains of nervousness disappear from her face and are replaced with a gleam of compassion. It’s almost harder to bear. Scratch that, compassion in the eyes of one of the very few women he’s approached in months is fucking harder to stand than her fear or anxiety.

“I do,” the doc answers quietly. “Don’t worry, okay? It happens...” She trails off and he’s pretty sure she was about to say that it happens all the time – nothing original with him, right? “I need to disinfect the skin here and dress the cut. That’s all. I won’t go higher,” she adds, her lips twisting in a tiny smile.

 _Is that supposed to be a_ good _thing?_ is something else he doesn’t say.

He takes his eyes off of her hands and concentrates on the stack of files on her desk, on breathing as evenly as possible, on the clock on the wall behind her. Three minutes to midnight and running. Then he’ll have four months and ten days to live. What a way to enter a new year. A thorough countdown and a raging erection due to the kind but professional care of a woman who’ll be there when he’s put down. He could, probably should, wallow in his misery but chooses instead to thrive in irony. He jerks nonetheless when both hands of the clock hit twelve with what seems to be an absurdly loud click. He breathes in.

“Happy new year, doc.”

She looks up at him, her mouth open, on the verge of returning the wishes, and it’s her turn not to speak. She shakes her head and eventually lets out in a thoughtful voice, “You’re a sick, sick man, you know?”

She looks like she’s about to pat his knee sympathetically, but she decides against it and he can’t thank her enough for that. Better keep the touching to the strict necessary right now.

“I’m done.” She nods, maybe at the cut, maybe at his groin. “I mean, I’m almost done. I have stuff to get in the next room and I’ll be right back.” She reaches out for the curtain and draws it on its rack until the bed Lincoln’s sitting on is totally secluded. “I’ll be out about ten minutes. Will you be okay?”

“Everything considered, I’m pretty sure I won’t need so much time to collect myself.” He smirks at her and feels a deep satisfaction as well as an idle shame when she finally blushes the slightest bit.

She rolls her eyes, rolls her chair back, snorts, “It’s your call, Mr. Burrows,” and then she’s out, leaving him alone with his stupid hard-on, the resilient sensation of her hands on his thigh and a hint of her perfume tickling his nostrils. Great. The thing is, it’s the truth, it probably won’t take more than a few minutes. Even though it feels weird, to say the least, to push his boxers down his thighs and sit here with his hand around his cock, gingerly stroking and pulling. He casts a glance at the trash where the doc has thrown her gloves and imagines her hands on him. As nimble and precise and gentle as they were a few minutes ago. Or maybe as nimble and precise and rough as he’d ask. He could surely go for a more elaborate fantasy, a more personal one. But this is really not the kind of context in which he wants to bring up his memories of Vee. Not to mention that the thought of the doc in the next room, shuffling and waiting... He clenches his fist a bit tighter around his shaft, pumps a bit harder and swallows back a grunt. Her hands would nimble and precise and rough. Definitely. They would not tease; they would take their time but go straight to the point, caress and fondle until he pants and only then pump him into orgasm. Then he would gaze at the come-covered fingers soothing him and lingering just long enough, until he can’t stand their light touch anymore.

It takes him a few seconds to acknowledge that his daydreaming actually got him off. He watches at his fist, sticky with his release, at his underwear stretched on his thighs, at the ugly shadows on the curtain in front of him. He swears as reality sinks in and he gets to his feet, pulling his boxers up. Good thing he focused on the hands thing and didn’t muster up Doc Tancredi’s boobs or ass in the process because in a couple of minutes, he’ll have to watch the woman in the eye and he’d rather not have in mind any parts of her anatomy that are usually hidden under her clothes. Right now, he’ll concentrate on the minutes to come and won’t imagine his next trip to the infirmary; it might be quite something though.

A thin layer of sweat shines on his face and chest, and he shudders in the cold air of the room as he heads off for the little sink in the corner. Wash his hands, wash the evidence, he thinks and turns on the faucet. The water is even chiller than the air and the soap smells like antiseptic, which is somehow oddly appropriate. He meticulously washes his hands and watches his sperm going down the sluice, bringing along a bit of his humanity.

-End-

\--Kudos and/or comments are always welcome.


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